Heart of a Killer Read Online Free

time.
    It wasn’t until at least an hour later that my father called me aside and reminded me that the invitation had said four o’clock.
    I nodded. “I know, but I’m on a big case, and I got caught up in the work.”
    He looked pleased. “That I’m glad to hear. What kind of case is it?”
    “Murder,” I said, and happily waited for the double take, which came on schedule. I waited just a beat before dropping the bomb. “Pro bono.”
    His faint, ironic smile told me that he felt he should have expected something just like this. “Sounds like quite a career move. Murder … you’re starting at the top. No sense fooling around with armed robbery, or embezzlement.”
    “But there’s still a chance for some upward mobility,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like she’s a mass murderer.”
    “She?”
    “Yes. She cut her husband’s throat with a steak knife.”
    Just then my mother walked over, probably curious and a little concerned about what the conference was about. “Our son is representing a murderer,” Dad said.
    She recoiled for a moment, and then said, “Jamie.” Mother could make the word “Jamie” mean “Jamie, you’re an asshole and a complete disappointment,” merely by adjusting her inflection.
    “Jamie, this is simply not a good idea,” Dad said.
    “Yet it feels right,” I said.
    My mother frowned, something she was incredibly accomplished at. She had at least fifteen different frowns in her repertoire, which covered every possible displeasure she wanted to exhibit. “It’s like I’ve always said, he has his uncle’s genes.”
    She was referring to Dad’s brother Reggie, a criminal attorney for almost thirty-five years, during which time he had made virtually no money at all. Reggie occasionally showed up at family functions, but he was not exactly welcomed with open arms, and was obviously even less happy to be there.
    The conversation quickly came to an end, and my parents went back to circulating among their guests. It left me with a slight feeling of triumph, but then a stronger one of horror.
    I had decided not to represent Sheryl Harrison, but if I followed through on that instinct, my parents would think they won, that I had obeyed them.
    I had just gotten myself a client.

 
    For Sheryl, Sunday was either the best or worst day of the week. The sole determining factor was whether Karen came to visit; it was literally the only thing in the world that Sheryl looked forward to or had any interest in. Which meant that this particular day was going to be a “best” day, the first one in more than a month.
    For a long time Karen was there almost every Sunday, but the percentage started to decline as her health worsened. What also declined was the level of honesty between them; what were formerly open, candid conversations had become guarded and secretive.
    On Karen’s part, it represented a desire to protect her mother. She knew that she was her mother’s entire world, and that Sheryl would do anything for her. She also knew how helpless Sheryl felt because of her imprisonment; there was literally nothing she could do for Karen in any area of her life, other than provide love and understanding. But for what was ailing Karen, love and understanding simply wasn’t going to do the trick.
    So Karen avoided talking about her health, which was to say that left nothing in her life she really could talk honestly about. Because her health was gradually taking over everything, impacting all that she did, or didn’t do. And as she grew weaker, the “didn’t do”s were dominating.
    On this day, the conversation began pretty much the same as always, with Sheryl asking, “How are you feeling, honey?” She couldn’t help inquiring even though she already knew the answer.
    Her mother, Terry Aimonetti, had cared for her granddaughter Karen since Sheryl’s arrest, and had done the best she could in an awful situation. She considered it her obligation to keep Sheryl fully informed of